


JayTimBINGO2019: No Capes Week

by meaninglessblah



Series: JayTimBINGO2019 [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dogs, Engineer!Jason, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short stories for the JayTim Bingo Challenge 2019. Entries for No Capes Week enclosed!1. "Undeniable Attraction" - Drunk Dog Lover AU2. "Diner" - Serial Killer AU3. "Forbidden Love" - My God, They Were Roommates AU4. "Truth or Dare" - University AU5. "???" - ???





	1. Undeniable Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Undeniable Attraction" - Drunk Dog Lover AU

“Lizzie,” Jason groans, leaning his forehead into the soft pages of his project proposal for what he hopes is the last time. “Shut _ up_.” 

The stench of burnt coffee is strong in Jason’s nostrils. He’d considered switching over to tea forty minutes ago, but he needs to stay awake, and he always has chamomile before bed, so he’s not willing to bet it won’t drag him down kicking and screaming into the dregs of sleep if he caves. And sleep is looking really, _ really _ tempting right now. 

This proposal is going to be the death of him. He’s considered multiple times already if he’d be better served taking a crowbar off the worksite and clubbing himself over the head with it. It might be a more productive use of his time at this point. Between the ceaseless measuring, remeasuring, re-_re_measuring of angles, support beams, gallery voids, false floors, repurposed staircases- 

Jason just wants a fucking break. A quick glance at the wristwatch he’d ditched on his dining table (not that any _ dining _ actually gets done, with the amount of architect’s drawings and costing plans scattered across its width) tells him it’s closer to three a.m. than two. Which means he’s been at this for _ six straight hours _ at this point. And that’s not even including the twelve he’d clocked in his actual office, at his actual work desk. The one he’s going to have to sit at tomorrow and field questions on ‘minute’ floor plan changes and budget amendments, and _ God_, _ what _ is his dog _ doing _ out there? 

“Lizzie!” Jason snaps, the bellow underscored by a growl that rips up his throat as he spins to glare at the back door. Not that he can see her, of course, or she him. He’d put her out in the yard, as usual, because even though Jason adores her to hell and back, a tiny townhouse is not equipped to house a rambunctious Shepherd. One day, he’s hoping he can afford a nice slice of land just outside the city. Somewhere he can give her some room to stretch her legs properly. For now though, he makes up for the impractical living situation with excessively long walks and regular trips to the nearby shore, and hopes that’s enough to satisfy her. 

Outside, Lizzie’s excitable chirps smother and die for a few moments, before a yap rings out loud and pointed. Jason grunts irritably and shoves to his feet, scowling as he crosses the dining room. Honestly, he’s going to give that dog a _ piece of his mind_. Three a.m. is _ not _ an acceptable time to be offering a rousing rendition of the canine _ Psycho _ theme. 

He yanks open the back door, glower shifting to scan the backyard in a dangerous sweep, and falling on his buoyant Shepherd. Who’s… not alone. 

“Holy shit,” the man smothered under her excited weight is crooning. “Who’s a good girl? _ Who’s _ a good girl?” 

Jason’s a little too taken aback by there being a full-grown (if five and a half feet can be counted as full-grown) man in his backyard, slumped back in the grass and pinned under the weight of an ecstatic German Shepherd. He blinks, takes a moment to lean further out onto the porch to check whether there’s any other neighbours awake. 

All the other cubicle yards are dark and silent, so Jason can only assume he’s not a misplaced neighbour. More curiously, all three fences seem to be intact too, so he can’t have fallen through one. And Jason knows Ms Isley next door has a sixth sense when it comes to people and objects (read: a neon green frisbee he’d bought for Lizzie last year) coming within four feet of her beloved hydrangeas. 

But regardless of how he’s gotten here, there is definitely _ a man _ in Jason’s backyard, scrubbing hands through Lizzie’s fur with an expression that is equally as delighted as the pup herself. 

It takes a moment for the man to seem to notice him, and when he does, his eyes blow wide, his features blooming with excitement. He pushes a hand into the matt on Lizzie’s chest long enough to hold her off him, and exclaims, “Holy shit, dude! _ Dude! _ There’s a dog!” 

Jason stares at him, a little dumbfounded. Because, on the one hand, he’s not wrong; there is indeed a dog. Jason’s dog. And a man. In Jason’s backyard. 

“Yes,” Jason says, because that’s all that his sleep-deprived brain can conjure at the moment. 

The man looks exhilarated, and a little frantic, like Jason’s not quite getting the gravity of his statement. “There’s a _ dog_,” he repeats, and gestures broadly to the German Shepherd pinning him in the dew-soaked grass. 

“_Yes_,” Jason answers, and nods this time. That seems to assuage the man, because he grins stupidly and goes back to scritching behind her ears. Lizzie, expectedly, _ fucking adores _ this. 

The man yelps sharply when she burrows down to lick his entire goddamn face, and Jason leaps down the steps to save him as the man begins to thrash. 

“Lizzie, _ off_,” Jason orders curtly, and has to push a firm hand into her flank before she concedes her victim. The man’s a little dazed when Jason gets a hand in his shirt and drags him far enough away that there’s a foot between him and the dog. He looks a little disappointed at this development, but Jason focuses on catching Lizzie’s attention and commanding, “Sit.” 

She plops down immediately, and then slides into a lay, dark eyes fixed intently on the stranger. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth after a minute, but Jason can tell she’s focused enough not to shirk the order. 

The man gasps at the sight, an awe settling over his features. “She knows _ tricks_?” 

“No,” Jason says sharply, gaze sweeping over the man. He’s young, around Jason’s age. Maybe a little on the younger side. Dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and apparently a way with dogs. 

“Does she like treats?” the man slurs with blossoming glee, his tone rising an octave. 

Lizzie’s ears prick at that, and she straightens from her laze, gaze narrowing to a razor focus. Jason knows that look. “_No_,” he emphasises, scowling. 

The man doesn’t notice his glower, but he does lean forwards to offer an upturned palm to Lizzie. A laugh bubbles through him when she lathers it with an enormous pink tongue, searching for the heralded treats. “What a _ good _ dog,” he croons. 

Jason sighs, casting around for any sign of a handler or guardian who can take this clearly plastered idiot off his hands. No good Samaritan materialises from the shadows. Jason smothers the groan building in the back of his throat and glances down at the guy. 

He seems a little unsteady, even in a relatively stable sit. Leaning in, Jason can smell the damning stench of alcohol on his breath, and judging by how strong it is, he’s had a solid serve of it. Maybe an open tab’s worth, even. 

“Where do you live?” Jason asks, and the man stills to blink up at him. 

“Uh,” he says, and seems to ruminate on this question for a bit. “The Eyrie.” 

Jason’s not familiar with the suburb. Sounds like one of the names developers keep giving to those new self-contained mega-suburbias Jason sees springing up when he walks Lizzie. Maybe it’s not far from here. Maybe he can drive the guy through his neighbourhood and he’ll get lucky enough to spot- 

“Wait,” Jason says with a start of dread. “The Eyrie as in Eyrie Tower?” 

The man grins, baring perfect white teeth that boast of expensive dental work, and for a moment Jason feels like he’s having an out of body experience. Maybe from the blessing of those high cheekbones. But probably from the rush of tumultuous incredulity that spirals up through him. 

He knows Eyrie Tower. His coworker was a foreman on the foundations for Eyrie Tower, because the prick was a fanboy of anything with a wildly excessive budget and a population of Gotham’s elite. The look on his face when Jason’s bid for a renovation of one of Gotham’s oldest (barely) standing orphanages shoved out yet another of his wildly luxurious apartment blocks on premiere ground in the Diamond District would warm the cockles of Jason’s spiteful heart til the end of his days. 

But Jason also knows that Eyrie Tower is a thirty minute drive from here, and he’s at a loss for how the guy managed to get into Jason’s neighbourhood, drunk as a skunk, in the early hours of a regular Thursday morning. Jason’s not even sure if there are any bars open this late in his district. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason gasps, more to himself than to the man currently trying to coax Lizzie out of her obedient sprawl so he can reach her ears. 

The man straightens, turning the full force of that grin on him, and Jason considers that okay, maybe the guy is pretty gifted in the looks department, but he’s a downright _ moron _ and Jason _ will not _ be suckered into offering up his couch to a drunk late night wanderer. 

“I was walking,” he answers, that slur growing more prominent, and for the first time, Jason considers that maybe he’s sliding into alcohol toxicity rather than sobriety the longer they sit here. He suddenly, frantically, questions exactly how much the man has had to drink. “Saw your dog,” he continues, pointing an explanatory finger at Lizzie. A dopey grin crosses his features. “Dogs are _ great_.” 

Then he doubles over and - unceremoniously, unabashedly, and with unwavering precision - upheaves directly onto Jason’s shoes. 

* * *

The man is still on the couch where Jason left him when he wakes at an ungodly hour to dress for work. He’s a little relieved, honestly; Jason doesn’t particularly want to leave a complete stranger alone in his house while he putters off to work, even if that complete stranger is pitifully hungover. 

He’s greeted by a smothered groan when he alights on the bottom step, his gaze swivelling to where the man is laid out, a pillow hooked over his face. Jason smirks and deftly knots his tie as he approaches to lean a hip against the wingback armchair adjacent. 

“Sleep alright?” he asks, consciously pitching his voice low enough not to set off the man’s no doubt throbbing headache. 

It still earns him a pinched glare when the man drags the pillow down far enough to squint at him. Then it twists into a genuine frown, his gaze sliding around the unfamiliar room. Jason waits patiently while he takes stock of his situation, the tension knitting into his shoulders the longer he lays there. Jason kind of wishes he had a coffee mug to sip while the revelation overtakes the man; it’s kind of entertaining, in a schadenfreude way. 

Finally, the man’s gaze flicks back to him, dragging down his ironed dress shirt and grey slacks, before rising back up to his faintly amused expression, and narrowing. “Where am I?” 

“Admiral Way,” Jason supplies, and watches confusion twist his features. “Coffee?” 

“Please,” the man mewls, swinging his legs off the couch. He pauses there, looking suddenly nauseous, and that gives Jason pause. 

“Don’t you throw up on my oak timber,” Jason warns with an accusing finger. “I had to import this shit. I already had to scrub your puke off of my boots. I’m not doing it again.” 

The man looks genuinely remorseful in the soft morning light, so Jason relaxes his posture. “Sorry about that,” he offers contritely, and finds his feet with more balance this time. He scrubs the heel of a hand into his eye, and follows Jason into the adjoining kitchen. 

“You take cream?” Jason asks, and gets a dissenting grunt in response. “Sugar?” 

Another grunt, as the man skirts his dining table and pauses to survey the drawings still spread across its surface. 

Jason scowls. “Hey, Igor, we appreciate actual responses in this household.” 

The man turns his head over his shoulder to offer him an apologetic look. “Sorry, no sugar, thank you.” 

Jason nods his acknowledgement, dropping a pod into the machine and a mug under the spout. Then he crosses his arms over his chest and leans his hips back against the counter. “You got a job you need to be getting to, or have you got a day off to recover?” 

The man’s nose scrunches at the reminder. “I’ve got a job,” he allows, with obvious distaste, “but it’s not like I’ll get pulled up if I don’t show up on time.” 

Jason tilts his head and surveys him. The guy looks old enough to have a career, but not old enough to have anything higher than a supervisory position, if he’s climbing the good ol’ honest company ladder. He wonders what industry the man could be in that his boss is so relaxed. 

“Why not?” he asks, and the man gives him a conspiratorial grin, like they’re sharing an inside joke. When Jason doesn’t return it, he seems to remember himself. 

“Oh, uh, I own a company,” he offers offhandedly, and Jason starts. 

“Bit young for that. A local one?” 

“Um,” the man replies, brow furrowing as he reads Jason’s engineers’ sketches upside-down, “sort of. I own several.” 

“_Several_,” Jason repeats, lip quirking in incredulity. “What, did you inherit Wayne Tower or something?” 

“Yeah, actually,” the man replies mildly, still not facing him. Jason waits for the punchline. It doesn’t come. 

“Y-you- _ You’re _ the owner of Wayne Tower?” 

The man glances back, and shrugs. 

“_The _ Wayne Tower? The greatest architectural achievement in Gotham history?” Jason presses, and the man frowns like he hadn’t considered that assessment before. 

“Yeah, Wayne Tower. My company owns it.” 

“Your company… Wait, if you own Wayne Tower, that means you’re Wayne Enterprises’ CE… oh my God,” Jason whispers with dawning horror. 

The man does turn at that tone, curious. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“That would make you my boss.” 

The man blinks, and then snorts, face scrunching in a manner that’s not entirely hideous. Kind of cute, Jason might have been able to admit if he wasn’t currently experiencing all five stages of grief in rapid succession. 

“What, you work for Wayne Enterprises?” he teases with a crooked brow. One that rapidly descends when Jason nods numbly. “Oh. Oh, shit. Oh _ shit_-” 

“You like my dog,” Jason whispers, insensate. 

The horror seems to be catching up with the man, because he suddenly looks _ immensely _ contrite. “Hey, look, whatever I said last night, whatever I did, I was _ really _ drunk-” 

“You were exceptionally drunk,” Jason agrees. 

The man doesn’t seem to be consoled by this fact. His brow pinches, a whine building in his throat. “Look, I had one too many at a charity gala. I didn’t mean to get so- so- Look, if we could just forget all of this, that would be, God, that would be _ fantastic_.” 

“Yeah,” Jason croaks through his mortification. “I can do that.” 

“Thank you,” the man sighs, visibly relieved. His wincing gaze catches on the schematics again, and he gestures lamely as Jason turns to retrieve his mug. “Are these yours?” 

Jason slides the mug across the counter to him, adding another pod for his own coffee. “Uh, yeah, sort of. I didn’t draw them, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jason provides, and the man crooks a curious brow. “I’m an engineer. I specialise in urban planning and development. I’m working on renovating the old Gotham Orphanage. Figured she could use a bit of tender loving care after all these years.” 

“Oh,” the man perks with surprising interest, turning to snag the corner of the largest schematic. He drags it around until it’s the right way up, and raises his mug to his lips as he loses himself in the lead-hewn lines. 

Jason surveys him with an ounce of curiosity, extracting his steaming beverage from the machine to approach. He hadn’t pegged a CEO to be the kind of guy who took an interest in the building projects of a small business he didn’t even remember amalgamating into his portfolio. But there’s a focused crease to the man’s brow as his gaze flits over the page, so Jason leans a hip against the table, taking a sip. 

“This is one hell of a facelift,” the man remarks without looking up. 

Jason shoves down the swell of pride that bubbles up through his chest at that, nodding towards an accompanying drawing that the man quickly tugs into centreview. “Not a facelift,” he corrects as the man inspects the internal structure plans. “A total makeover. Inside and out. More ecological, more spatially efficient. Better facilities, better circulation, better directional flow. She’s going to look stunning by the time I’m done with her.” 

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it,” the man answers, and it sounds genuinely impressed. “The kids too.” 

“I’m sourcing local hardwood from sustainable woodlands,” Jason explains, reaching over to drag the swatches before the man. He feels energised by the discussion, eager to show his working. He’s poured his heart into this project, and it nestles a little too close to home for Jason to be satisfied with second-best. “Installing solar heating, catchment rain tanks - the whole kit and kaboodle. I’m trying to swing a rooftop garden past my boss,” he admits with a nervous chuckle, “but I don’t know if it’s going to fly.” 

The man glances up at him, analysing in his expression. Jason stills under the attention as he cocks his head and enquires, “Why not?” 

Jason’s brows rise, and he glances in no particular direction before returning to the man’s intense stare. “In short? Budgeting. I’m squeezed tight as it is between materials and labour.” 

There’s a costs spreadsheet in the man’s hand before Jason can blink, his analytical gaze dissecting the forecast in seconds. Jason figures he’s probably more familiar with balance sheets than technical schematics, so this must come as second nature to him. 

“Your labour costs are immoderate,” he declares after a discerning moment, but doesn’t look up from the spreadsheet yet. 

Jason wonders briefly if this is the sort of thing you argue with a CEO over, or if this is the short of thing you smile gratefully at and thank him for the wisdom. He shifts his gaze to the rows and columns of numerical values anyway. “It’s an independent agency,” he says carefully, watching the man’s expression shift. “They hire ex-cons, folks with convictions, to retrain in manual labour work. They take in a lot of guys on parole. A lot of kids after juvy too,” he adds with a hint more defensiveness, and the man glances up at that. “Help them get an apprenticeship under them. Give them a fresh start.” 

The man’s features are arranged into a carefully impassive mask, and Jason shifts uncomfortably under that scrutinising look. “That’s going to blow out your labour costs, and your scheduling. Lots of untrained guys on a worksite makes for slow progress.” 

Jason shrugs, feeling suddenly protective of his project. “It’s not going anywhere soon. Two more years and she’d be in the ground under a demolition crew. I figured the orphanage offered more than another profligate apartment complex - at least, to the right people.” 

“People who need it,” the man agrees with a small, private smile. Then he drops the spreadsheet back onto the pile, his demeanour shifting immediately. “So what’s your issue with funding? Why can’t you just apply to up the budget?” 

Jason offers him a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Apply where? I’ve got the flagship project. My budget’s already nearly three times the cost of the new Robinson Park development.” 

The man doesn’t flinch under this news, raising his mug to take another sip as he dissects Jason over the rim with piercing blue eyes. He tries his best not to squirm, lacing his free hand into the crook of his other arm. 

“So how much do you need?” he asks mildly, and Jason frowns. 

“I’d _ like _ fifty thousand,” Jason says sternly. “But I can work with thirty. Shit, I’ll work with twenty if you can get my boss to sign off on it.” 

“For the garden, right?” the man presses. 

Jason lifts his mug again, absently inhaling the steam. “The landscaping, yeah. I wanted to give the kids somewhere to run around, get some fresh air. Not a lot of safe playgrounds in the Bowery. Makes a big difference to a kid, getting to see some green in their lives.” 

“Does a lot of social good too,” the man agrees with a hint of amusement. Jason can’t work out what over. “More active kids usually means healthier, more active adults. Less strain on the medical welfare system. Lower intakes for mental health clinics.” 

“Better grades,” Jason interjects evenly. “Better school-life balance. Higher test scores. More options for higher education. It means a better chance at breaking the cycle for these kids. That’s what I’m working on - giving them that chance.” 

Those blue eyes are boring into him, drilling down to Jason’s motivations, and he tries to stay steady under that intense scrutiny. “And fifty thousand will get that done?” the man says with a hint of incredulity. 

Jason scowls, but marshalls the underlying determination into his tone. “Yeah, I’m certain. Give me fifty grand, and I’ll give Gotham a future.” 

The man’s brows raise at that, but he says nothing more as he returns to his coffee. Jason frowns, wary of that being a false conclusion, and then catches sight of the clock over his fridge. 

“Shit,” he curses, and confirms against his wristwatch. He sets the mug on the table, straightening to snag his messenger bag from its lean against the side of the kitchen counter, slipping it over his shoulder. 

The man watches him move about, hastily collecting his things, before Jason pauses and glances back at him. 

“Hey, you’re good to let yourself out, right?” he entreats tentatively, and the man nods. Jason frowns to himself and adds, “And like, not rob me.” 

He snickers into his mug, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I think I already rob my employees of enough time as it is,” he says, and Jason hesitates. He makes a shooing motion with his unoccupied hand, and Jason yanks his leather jacket off the peg beside the stairs. 

“If you leave out the back door, you don’t need a key,” he instructs as he goes. “Just turn the nub on your way out and head out the side gate. Make sure you use both latches; Lizzie knows how to unlock them individually.” 

The man looks intrigued by that, and pipes up as Jason ducks into the hallway, projecting his voice so Jason can hear him from the kitchen, “Where would I find those treats?” 

“Cabinet next to the sink,” he bellows back, and yanks open the front door, jacket in hand as he calls, sternly, “Don’t give her more than three.” 

* * *

“Care to explain, Todd?” his manager says pointedly when Jason shrugs into the conference room. The meeting is apparently in full swing, if the twenty pairs of eyes that swivel to hone in on him are anything to go by. Jason winces and takes his seat, dumping his satchel beside his chair and fumbling for his folder. 

“Sorry, Hal,” he says quickly, contritely, and adds in a mutter, “had an unexpected guest.” 

“Not talking about your tardiness,” Hal corrects with a crooked brow, and crosses his arms over his chest. Jason stills and frowns, pen hovering over his notebook as he mentally tries to fast forward through the obstacle course of exactly what he’s done to earn this. 

“Not sure,” Jason hedges reluctantly, and glances at the projector screen behind him for context. All that greets him is the company logo, which indicates that whatever it is, it’s delayed the meeting. 

Hal doesn’t seem to buy his confusion. “Really.” 

“Todd sucked off the right exec, apparently,” his coworker drawls from across the table, and Jason throws him a sharp glare before the words even register. 

“Get fucked, Rayner,” he snarls, and earns a charming smirk for it. 

“Normally, I’d second that,” Hal interjects mildly. “But I’ve gotta say, I’m inclined to agree with Rayner on this one.” 

Jason frowns and glances between the pair. “What the hell are you two talking about?” When no one moves, he leans further over the board table and gestures invitingly with his pen. “Does someone want to tell me what I’ve done? Because I’m at a loss here.” 

Rayner’s feet descend from the table and hit the carpet with a dull thud, his fingers skimming into his folder to leaf it open. Jason catches a glimpse of idle sketches in a perfectly geometrical engineer’s scrawl before his attention is drawn to the ominous-looking black card Rayner unearths and flicks across the width of the table. 

Jason jerks forward to catch it before it slides past, frowning as he turns it over in the light. It’s a stiff, high quality paper, painted in a rich, glossy sheen of black. There’s a neat, silver script printed across the reverse in varying sizes of font, but the eye is drawn immediately to the imposing heading. 

“_Futures of Gotham Charity Fundraiser_,” Jason reads in a slow monotone. “You are cordially invited to attend the _ Futures of Gotham Charity Fundraiser_, a premier opportunity to donate to the Gotham Orphanage renovation and restoration project. Patroned by prominent philanthropist Timothy Drake-Wayne of Wayne Enterprises, this fundraiser seeks to establish sponsors for the betterment of Gotham’s social wards and their futures.” 

When Jason looks up, Rayner’s offering him an arched, acerbic brow. Even Hal seems to be waiting on an explanation Jason’s at a loss to provide. 

“Well, fuck me,” he announces, and the tension eases from the room. Rayner hooks his heels back up on the table, head swivelling back to the projector screen as Jason frowns down at the card. 

Hal huffs a mild laugh, unfurling from his standoffish posture. “Looks like you’ll get your garden after all, Todd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You, sticking your head into my office:** Why are the all the Lanterns building engineers?  
**Me, retrofitting a kazoo into a rudimentary sniper rifle, shrugging:** I dunno. Constructs. 
> 
> It’s been a long week. Can you tell? 
> 
> And yes, you're absolutely right, Jason did name his dog after Elizabeth Bennet because he's a _massive_ nerd.


	2. Diner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Diner" - Serial Killer AU

“I think Jason’s a serial killer,” Dick says. 

Tim’s hand stills on his slightly chipped, off-white coffee mug. The neon lights of the upbeat diner flicker gently beneath the dying fluorescents overhead, beckoning the occasional patron through the novelty doors. The warble of a long-dead musician croons softly, and the faded pastel leather of the booth seat creaks slightly under his weight. Tim - very, very carefully - doesn’t move. 

Dick casts him an imploring, hesitant glance, and glances less-than-surreptitiously at the doorway, as if he expects Jason to stroll through at any minute. 

He’s not going to. Tim knows, because he keeps (basic, lowkey) tabs on his boyfriend. He knows Jason is currently hunched over his writing desk, buried in a stack of indecipherable notes. “What would make you think that?” Tim responds, forcing his tone into a confused, mildly indignant drawl. 

Dick’s brow pinches like Tim’s just asked why he has two opposable thumbs. When he slams his elbow on the table and touches his index finger to his other index finger, like he’s going to start counting off the reasons, Tim does actually roll his eyes. 

“One,” Dick says sternly, and Tim takes another gulp of his triple espresso, “he writes about murder. Two-” 

“He’s a _ crime thriller author_,” Tim stresses, letting his concern paint his features. “Murder is kinda the whole schtick, you know?” 

“Yes, but _ his _ murders are hyper-realistic!” 

Dick looks like he’s stumbled upon a Very Important Point. Tim blinks at him. Dick scowls. 

“We studied cases like this!” Dick bemoans, and Tim sighs with a nostalgic sort of fondness. “We did criminology together. We both know the sort of detail you can glean from a crime scene. The kind of things he’s describing, the sort of events he’s writing about? That’s homicide central stuff. That’s on-the-ground experience jazz. That’s-” Dick pauses, looking thoughtful. “What’s that thing where actors live their characters?” 

“Method acting?” Tim prompts, and Dick lights up. 

“That!” 

Tim crooks a brow. “You think Jason is method acting his writing… by murdering people.” 

“_Yes_,” Dick hisses with broad exasperation, and Tim barks a laugh. 

“Wow. You’re edging into crazy private investigator territory now, Dick.” 

Dick growls irritably in his throat, sculling the dregs of his sugar-enhanced cappuccino. “I’m a registered detective, you do get that, right? So when I say, _ I think your boyfriend is a serial killer_, you’re supposed to reply, _ gosh Dick thank you for telling me, what would I ever do without you? _” 

Tim scoffs, amused. “Jason’s not a serial killer, Dick.” 

“He writes complex, _ hyperrealistic _ murder scenes for fun!” 

“He’s an _ author_.” 

“An author with a really, _ really _ suspiciously good grasp on accurate homicides?” 

Tim leans his chin into his palm and raises his brows. Dick’s features descend into dark broodiness. 

“Okay, fine,” Dick says, switching tacts. “What about the cold cases, hmm?” 

“What cold cases?” Tim says disinterestedly, and picks at the barely touched chili fries between Dick’s elbows. He doesn’t seem to notice his theft, and Tim plops a fry into his mouth. 

“_The _ cold cases,” Dick snarls. “The Red Robin cold cases.” 

Tim stifles a chuckle in his swallow. “Red Robin?” 

Dick’s nose scrunches, a displeased air settling over his brow. “Yeah, Red Robin. You know, the killer who keeps tagging all his kills? With the R, on the chests of his victims? Like Batman’s Robin?” 

As if to emphasise, Dick traces a lopsided R over his left pectoral. Tim’s gaze follows it, and flicks back up dubiously. “That’s the dumbest serial killer name I’ve ever heard.” 

“It’s an _ inversion_,” Dick says, exasperated, and straightens in his chair. Tim has to admire his determination to salvage the discussion. “Red like blood, like an unjust Robin, a corrupt vigila- Look, that’s not the point. The point is Jason’s using clues from the cold cases.” 

“They’re on public file,” Tim responds boredly. “Lots of authors look up criminal records and newspaper articles when they’re researching a new book. Jason’s no different. You should see his study; he’s got his references _ alphabetised-_” 

“He’s using unreleased facts,” Dick cuts in bluntly, and Tim freezes. 

“He’s what?” 

“His scenes are almost exact replicas of Red Robin’s kills,” Dick explains with the fervour of someone who has an overburdened corkboard in their basement that’s more damning red string than photographs. “Like, noticeably similar.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “It’s easier to rip off a real crime scene than fake your own-” 

“Yes, but, _ but_,” Dick stresses, blue eyes alight. “Jason’s not just using the case file details. Jason’s using details that haven’t ever been released to the press. Stuff that only someone who was _ at the crime scene _ would know.” 

“So,” Tim stalls, chewing this over with stark dubiety. “You think Jason is a serial killer, who’s committing murders, and then going home and writing all of those murders down in his books?” 

“_Exactly!_” 

Tim spreads his hands wide in disbelief. “What does he stand to gain from that? Why would someone just _ write down _ all their crimes? What sort of confession is that, even?” 

“One that scores him a solid publishing deal,” Dick interjects, and Tim’s expression seeps into blunt, deadpan impiety. 

“Ah yes, the real criminal was capitalist greed, all along.” 

Dick sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, so I’ll admit the motive is a little weird. But it’s not the weirdest we’ve heard before! Remember the hyena lady?” 

“The one who was murdering people to feed her pet hyenas? Yeah, I remember studying her case.” 

“My point stands. Jason’s killing people so he can write about it for his book.” 

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “What would even make you think that _ Jason _ is capable of something like that?” 

Dick’s eyes bulge, and a stilted, indignant half-chortle erupts from his throat. “Have you seen the guy? He’s six foot _ beefcake_-” 

“Oh, yeah,” Tim purrs with the curl of a smile, and Dick’s glare is chastising. 

“-and probably got the smarts to pull this off, if his literary prowess is anything to go by.” 

Tim bites his lower lip, jutting his chin out as he beetles his brow. “Oh, fuck yeah, that _ literary wit_-” 

Dick reaches forward to scrub a hand through his hair in reprimand, and Tim bats it away, laughing loudly in the small, contained diner. 

“I’m sorry, but _ Jason _ being a _ serial killer_?” Tim says, and has to fight the urge to wipe away a tear. “Yeah, he’s jacked as all hell, but he works out, alright? And he’s got smarts because he’s a _ huge fucking nerd_. Seriously, he owns more books than a damn library. I mean, the dude wears _ glasses_, for God’s sake. He’s your classic bookworm recluse. You seriously think he’s capable of cold-blooded murder?” 

“Explain how he knows all those unpublished details then.” 

Tim gives an exaggerated shrug, grabbing his mug again. “He’s got an overactive imagination. He got lucky. It’s a coincidence, Dick. Nothing more.” 

“_Twenty-seven consecutive coincidences_.” 

Tim frowns, pausing with the rim balanced on his lip. “He did not rip off twenty-seven Red Robin homicide scenes.” 

“Why on earth not?” 

“Because there’s hasn’t _ been _ twenty-seven Red Robin homicide scenes,” Tim says with a hint of irritation, lowering his mug. 

“So it’s like twenty-two or something,” Dick dismisses. “But only eighteen of those have been released to the press-” 

“Hang on, hang on,” Tim interrupts, bracing his hands on the table in front of Dick. “Let me get this straight. You think my boyfriend is a homicidal killer who confession-writes his own kills, and your justification is that he’s _ too good at writing murder scenes _ to be innocent?” 

“And he uses integral details from the crime scenes. Tim, his last book included a chapter where the victim suffers a heart attack from an air injection into her big toe. And eight months back, one of Red Robin’s victims died of - oh, yeah - _ a heart attack from a miniscule injection in his left hallux_. That case was _ never _ released to the press, and there was _ no way _ to know the method of homicide. Explain how he got his hands on those details!” 

Tim takes a deep breath, and slumps back in his seat. Very carefully and slowly crosses his arms over his chest, and thinks it over. Realises he probably should have nipped this conversation in the bud about forty-five minutes ago, when he’d gotten Dick’s emoji-ridden text to meet him at their favourite off-the-freeway diner. 

Because, he’s got to admit, that evidence is pretty damning. Paints this whole theory in a brand new, hyperreflective, look-at-big-mister-hometown-serial-killer-over-here light. Tim’s read Jason’s books (of course he’s read his own boyfriend’s books, every early draft to pre-copy manuscript, front to back and over again just to be sure), so he knows the homicides in them like the back of his hands. Knows them down to the excruciating, edge-of-your-seat literary details. Knows every crafty kill and meticulous murder, no matter how inconsistent or embellished they may seem. 

But Tim also knows that Jason can’t possibly be moonlighting as a serial killer. 

Because Tim’s a serial killer. 

And somewhere between the monthly rigmarole of a solid, neatly displayed kill and Steph strong-arming him into trying out a bachelors speed dating event, Tim had found that he really, _ really _ liked helping his boyfriend write his hyperrealistic murder scenes. Because Jason was such a good author! His first book had been an international, New York Times Best-selling success! 

But then had come the publishing deal, and the contract for a twelve-part series, and sweet, eager-to-impress Jason had started panicking about the validity of his murder scenes. Would they be realistic enough? Would he have the detail? 

After that had been the questions. How long does it take to die from an intestinal bleed? What’s the benefit of favouring a six inch kitchen knife over a three inch retractable switchblade? How quickly can you asphyxiate a person with nothing but a grocery bag, a strip of duct tape, and the element of surprise at your disposal? 

So yeah, he liked helping out his boyfriend. _ Arrest him_. 

“Maybe he bribed the medical examiner,” Tim offers, and Dick very nearly screeches in frustration. 

“I swear, it’s like you don’t even _ want _ to see the truth,” Dick bellows, and Tim comes the closest he’s ever come to an irony-induced out of body experience. 

Instead of acknowledging that, he shrugs and slumps back in the booth. “I just don’t see it, Dick. You just don’t know Jason like I do. He works really hard to get those details correct. He panics over the smallest shred of impracticality. I’ve watched him rewrite an entire five chapter block because he forgot his victim was an asthmatic. If you actually spent five minutes around my boyfriend, you’d see he’s just a really, really dedicated author.” 

Dick has the decency to look a little cowed. “I just don’t understand how he can be getting his hands on those details. The cops-” 

“Are human,” Tim concludes, half-smiling. “You’d be amazed how many of them are willing to look the other way for Benjamin Franklin. One of them must be his source.” 

“But he doesn’t _ meet _ with any cops,” Dick groans, and Tim can see the edges of resignation creeping in. Then that statement actually registers with him. 

“Wait, what do you mean he doesn’t meet with cops?” Tim hedges, and feels a tingly rush of fury when Dick looks sheepish. “Have you been _ staking out _ my boyfriend?!” 

Dick’s shoulders are practically fused with his ears he’s so contrite. “I thought, if I could just get some evidence, then maybe-” 

Tim’s mind is flashing back to the bloodstained sweatshirt he’d had to stash in the pool filter box two nights back when Jason had rushed him home for their anniversary dinner. The one that’s still cradled up against the pump motor, and there’s _ cops sitting on his street with binoculars and potentially warrants- _

“How long have you been stalking me?” Tim demands in broad, horrified panic. 

Dick pales. “No, no, not _ stalking_, just-” 

“Dick, Jason is _ not _ a serial killer. If you don’t call your stalker buddies in _ right now_, I’ll-” 

“Okay, okay!” Dick belts, and looks just the slightest bit petulant as he pulls out his cell. “Fine, I’ll text them.” 

“And don’t let them come back,” Tim presses. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll tell them to move along.” Dick sighs deeply, and pockets his cell after a moment of typing. He casts Tim a reproachful gaze. “I still think he’s a serial killer.” 

Tim hums, and presses his coffee mug up to his lips. “As long as you think it far away from my house, that’s fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Broke:** Tim’s a caffeinated idiot who’s too distracted to keep his serial killer tendencies a secret. The cops would be on him in a flash.  
**Woke:** Tim’s intelligent and capable enough to both help his boyfriend write his novel and keep the cops off his trail.  
**Bespoke:** Tim’s an intelligent and capable caffeinated idiot who’s so in love with his boyfriend and so busy with helping him write his novel that he forgets to keep the cops from discovering he’s a goddamn serial killer.


	3. Forbidden Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Forbidden Love" - My God, They Were Roommates AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a tiny bit NSFW. Nothing explicit, but you've been warned.

Tim’s scrolling through his feed when the door across the corridor clicks open and a hulking figure shoulders out, pausing when he glances up and meets Tim’s gaze. 

He looks a little surprised to see the smaller man leaned up against his own dorm room door, but the pinch in his brow doesn’t stop him from offering a cordial, “Hey.” 

“How’s it going?” Tim asks, deadpan, and glances down at the phone in his hand in time to see the battery dip to one percent. His screen informs him that his phone is shutting down, and he sighs as it goes dark, jamming it into his back pocket. 

The man straightens, stepping completely out of the room and tugging the door closed behind him. But not before a wail rips out loud enough to fill the hallway. A wail that’s not at all agonised, and if Tim had to put money on it, desperately and entirely pleasurable. 

Tim stares at the closed door once it’s jerked shut, even as the man winces and slumps back against the frame. Tim raises a brow in question, and the guy rolls his eyes. “My roommate’s girlfriend flew in from Cincinnati this afternoon. They haven’t stopped since she arrived.” 

Tim’s gaze slides over him, and then back towards the innocuous door. “That didn’t sound like a wo-” 

“He’s into pegging.” 

Tim chokes on his spit, but the man’s expression is absolutely inscrutable when he glances up, eyes close to watering. “Come again?” 

“Are you honestly going to make me repeat that?” the man says, mock-incredulously. Then he scrubs a hand down his face and groans pitifully. “I have a trusts exam tomorrow. Do you know how hard it is to focus on fiduciary duty when your roommate is getting dicked down by a six foot redhead babe in the next room over?” 

Tim opens his mouth, closes it, and decides this conversation is far better than his dead feed on his dead phone. He must be the only person not getting some tonight. He and one other person, anyway. “I bet I can top that.” 

The man raises a challenging brow, and rolls an inviting hand through the air. 

“My ex started up a polyamorous threesome while I was trying to watch Netflix,” Tim offers, and the man’s brow skyrockets into his dark fringe. “Fuck whoever says Netflix and chill is dead.” 

“That’s rough, buddy.” 

“I love her, don’t get me wrong. Power to her and all that,” Tim says, and raises a half-hearted fist to pump the air above his head before rolling his eyes. “But would it kill her to go to one of _ their _ rooms for once? Instead of using our dorm as a harem?” 

The man snorts and settles his weight back against the doorframe. “Must be something going around, I guess.” 

Tim affects a pout. “I feel like I’m missing out.” 

The man laughs, and extends a hand across the width of the corridor. “I’m Jason.” 

Tim blinks, but takes it. “Was that just serendipitously timed, or am I reading too far into this? Because I expect to be properly romanced, for the record,” he says, and then adds, “Tim.” 

The responding grin is entirely too wicked to be put-upon. “Romance is dead. Settle for serendipitous hook-ups like the rest of us.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Tim responds dryly, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Your place or mine? I’m sure we can push the orgy off the couch so we can make out.” 

Jason looks like he’s seriously thinking on that for a moment, and then shakes his head with a low tut. “It’s just inconsiderate at this point. I’m getting cockblocked by my own roommate.” 

“Try getting cockblocked by your ex,” Tim retorts, and Jason snickers. 

“Really puts a whole spin on the forbidden love deal, right? Who knew all those literary epics would boil down to getting booted out of our rooms by horny assholes. Now I get how Romeo and Juliet happened." 

Tim snorts, folding his arms over his chest. “A modern tragedy. I think I’m just going to get my revenge by changing all the Netflix account passwords. Then I can trade them in exchange for designating the common a fuck-free zone.” 

“Bold,” Jason replies, “but too impersonal. I’m going to switch out both their shampoos with dye. So if you see a gargantuan woman with glowing green eyes and bright purple hair, leg it.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says with a twist of his lips. 

Jason arches a brow, and then something occurs to him. Something that draws his features into a devilish smirk and has Tim straightening in conspiratorial curiosity. “What?” he asks, not nearly as warily as he should. 

Jason’s hands fall to his back pocket, patting himself down in search of something before he jams his hands into his hoodie and locates what he’s after. “Are you a good runner, Timmy?” Jason croons, and Tim squints. 

“I ran track in high school,” he answers, and Jason snorts as if that’s obvious. “Why?” 

Jason brings his hands up to his mouth, and his next words are muffled behind his cupped fists and whatever is occupying his lips. “Because I’ve got a _ terrible _ idea,” he slurs, and pulls his hands away. 

There’s a cigarette between his teeth, accented by his malicious grin. Tim opens his mouth to protest that they’re not allowed to smoke in the dorm building. Then he closes it, lifts his gaze to the smoke detector hanging between them on the ceiling, and presses his lips together in a thin smile. 

“Can I try?” he asks, and Jason reaches up to pluck the cigarette off his lips. 

“You’ve never smoked before?” he says in response as Tim lifts it and takes a drag. Holds it in his lungs against the unnerving urge to cough and shakily exhales a small cloud before wrinkling his nose and handing it back. Jason barks a laugh, relieving him of it. “Not for you, then.” 

“I’ll leave you to the legwork of this dastardly scheme,” Tim allows, and watches him pocket his lighter securely in his jeans pocket. Something occurs to him. “We should meet up. Afterwards.” 

Jason raises a brow, but looks contemplative as he sucks the cigarette to a glowing, vibrant red. “What did you have in mind?” 

Tim shrugs, folds and then unfolds his arms out of habit. “I’ve got a car.” 

Jason shrugs, but his smile looks genuine. “Easier to hook up in than on my bike.” 

Tim flushes at that, but smirks back. “Maybe we should apply to get our rooms switched. Would be easier to hook up with the person in the next room over. And then our bastard roommates would have to make a horny truce.” 

“Hold that thought,” Jason mutters, and sucks in a deep breath. Then he takes two steps forward, cranes his head back until Tim can drink in the long expanse of his bared throat, and exhales a lungful of smoke directly into the detector. 

Tim leans forward to smack his shoulder with the back of his hand, and Jason glances down at him. “Red Chevrolet,” Tim supplies with a definite grin. “Ditch the evidence.” 

The alarm splits the air with a shrill chorus, swallowing up Tim’s belting laughter as he bolts down the length of the hallway. He glances over his shoulder in time to see Jason sprinting in the opposite direction, and shoves open the door to the fire escape, taking the stairs two at a time. He practically leaps the bannister down to the parking garage as the dorm comes to life around him, keys already in hand. 

After all, he’s got a date. 


	4. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Truth or Dare" - University AU 
> 
> **There's some slight NSFW in this one; nothing explicit, but you've been warned.**

****This is the first party Tim’s been invited to since starting university, and he wants to make a good impression. At least, that’s what Steph assures him with a downright threatening glare. 

And she’s fresh out of a messy friends-with-benefits arrangement that was beginning to look suspiciously like a relationship, and desperately in need of a pet project, so Tim lets himself be swept up in her enthusiasm. 

It’s one of those dumb parties where no one uses their actual names. He’s handed a sticker tag and a sharpie at the door, and ordered to write his room number on it. Instructed that under no circumstances is he to divulge his actual name. 

Tim takes it with a roll of eyes that earns him a sharp glare from Steph, and scrawls four-zero-eight over the black line. While he’s busy deciding where it’s best to plaster an obnoxious red tag so that no one can call him on it, Steph snatches it out of his distracted grip and slaps it on his chest, directly over his heart. 

He chokes and bows over at the force of it, certain it’s going to bruise, which just puts him within perfect range for Steph to growl in his ear, “Stop looking like I shot your puppy. You’re here to score. Look a little more approachable, would you?” 

Tim fixes her with a dry stare. “What, you only like me for my looks?” 

Steph smirks and shoves him past the host, who’s occupied with explaining the naming rules to an encore of sports scholarships behind them. “Your wit and innate charm are only useful if you actually_ talk _to people,” she reminds him, purring as she snags two red cups from a table of not-yet-decimated alcohol. They must be early. “So have a drink. Try to look like you actually want to be here, and keep an eye out for tall, dark and handsome strangers.” 

“But I _ don’t _ want to be here,” Tim reminds her, ignoring that last part as a fresh song kicks into gear and begins blaring through the speakers on the other side of the dorm common. Tim winces, but Steph ignores him. 

“You’re a politics major,” she says, pitching her volume to be heard above the music. “Just pretend you’re buttering up your future constituents.” 

“I hate you,” Tim offers sullenly, and Steph grins, jostling him with her hip. 

“I know,” she answers, and shoves him towards the crowd. “Now get going. I better see some mingling!” 

Tim sighs, but hugs his cup close and heads into the mill and churn of people as Steph slips away. He tracks her heading for a troupe of ladies, slinging her arm over one’s shoulder, and turns back to scanning the room. There’s couples strewn about, tucked against pillars and in the pockets of the common, and Tim feels suddenly isolated in the middle of it. 

The slew of athletes finally arrives, brushing past Tim with a loud and raucous chorus, and he finds himself shouldered to the outskirts of the room, waving off the apology one of them pauses to offer him. 

It puts him close enough that he can keep an eye on the proceedings as a small dancefloor begins to form, but far enough away that no one tries to drag him into the mess. He spots Steph edging into the mass of bodies after a moment, and smiles to himself when he catches a glimpse of her bright, ecstatic features amongst the crowd. 

Tim watches her for a bit, sipping at his brimming cup, if only to reduce the likelihood of him having to wear it if someone bumps him while dancing. He has three close calls before he takes the hint to move out of the expanding perimeter of the dancefloor, finding himself edging towards an open doorway. When someone slams their partner up against the wall right beside Tim and starts fiercely making out, Tim calls it quits and ducks into the side room. 

There’s a man already inside, crouched in front of an open cabinet, methodically tucking a stack of plates in. Tim stutters to a halt, partially because he didn’t expect to actually find anyone in here, when the party is very loudly going on out _ there_. And partially because the someone who _ is _ in here is a goddamn angel. 

He doesn’t take any notice of Tim when he takes a step forward on the linoleum, so Tim has an extra thirty seconds to let his gaze drop to the cords of muscling rolling down the guy’s biceps as he reaches up to grab a casserole dish from the countertop. Tim does a quick stocktake of the dark hair, firm jawline and sharp cheekbones before he mentally ticks off that okay, _ yeah, _ he maybe has a type. Doesn’t help that his smug conscious sounds suspiciously like Steph. 

“Hey, neighbour,” Tim says, and feels bold enough to attempt a smile. The man glances up with blank surprise, like he hadn’t expected Tim to be talking to _ him. _ Tim has to pause for a moment, because those eyes are really something else. Blue? Green? He can’t tell in the annoyingly dim lights, but they are _ mesmerising. _

Then the man frowns, like nothing about that sentence has made the slightest sense, and Tim checks that he’s actually speaking English before he presses onwards past the initial awkwardness. Tim chuckles nervously and points a clarifying finger with his cup-laden hand at the man’s nametag. “Four-oh-six. I’m four-oh-eight,” he elaborates, gesturing to his own chest, and sloshes half his drink down himself as he does. “_Fuck._” 

The man snorts and hastens to pluck the nearest tea towel off the oven handle, pressing it against Tim’s sodden chest as he flusters and finally has the good sense to put his cup down. 

“I got it,” the man assures him with a crooked flash of incisors, and then his warm palm is flush to Tim’s pectoral, only the thin veneer of a cushioning towel between them. Tim’s breath stutters to a halt in his throat, and it takes all of his willpower not to freeze up right then and there. The man’s eyes flick up, sympathetic, and then he shifts his hand a bit, dabbing along the rise of Tim’s collarbone, and what's left of Tim’s dumbass braincells flee his reeling skull. “Probably not the best way to meet your neighbour, but I’ll take it.” 

Tim swallows, enough of his consciousness returning that he has the sense to blush and shift beneath that weight. God, his hands are _ huge_. “Sorry, I’m a bit- I mean, I’m not-” Tim mentally groans and forces himself to look away enough to take in the fact that they’re standing in a mostly abandoned kitchen while the party is happening in the next room over. “What are you doing in the kitchen?” 

“Huh?” the man asks with a start, his dark brows fleeing into his hairline. His freckles gleam in the obscured light, and Tim studiously does _ not _ start to count them. Lord knows how long he’d be here making a fool of himself if he did. “Oh. I’m cleaning.” 

“You got invited to the first decent party of the new semester,” Tim says with broad scepticism, “and you’re spending it in the kitchen _ cleaning_?” 

The man shrugs, tucking the teatowel back into its handle after he swiftly and meticulously folds it. “I don’t like crowds. And there’s always plenty to do in a kitchen. I like it in here.” 

Tim watches him snag a pair of clean glasses, reaching up to flick open a cupboard at the height of Tim’s shorter reach. His shirt rides up when he does, and Tim’s gaze hones in on that strip of abdomen like a goddamn sniper. He almost feels like he deserves it when his mouth produces a strangled little bleat of pain without his permission, because are those _ abs _ he sees? 

The man slides back to his heels at the sound, glancing at Tim, who recovers in a well-timed cough. “So, you study at GU?” Tim asks, and mentally cuffs himself about the head. _ No, he’s here to steal the kitchenware from the fourth-storey dorms, _ Tim’s sneering consciousness provides. 

“Yeah,” the man says with a small curl of a smile, casting about the kitchen and realising he has nothing else to put away. He looks a little flustered for a moment, as if he’s panicking about not having anything else to keep him busy, so he shoves his hands into his front jeans pockets and meets Tim’s gaze. “Yeah, I study psychology. You?” 

_ Psychology, _ Tim’s useless, hormone-strangled brain whimpers, and he clears his throat to stay focused. “I’m here for politics,” he answers, and blinks. The man tilts his head a bit. Tim’s just summoning the words to correct that statement when the man chuckles, shoulders hunching, and Tim short-circuits. Watches that broad expanse of muscle compact and frame that flash of bright teeth. The man looks _ good _ when he laughs, some heat coming into his cheeks, and after a moment Tim mentally checks if he’s drooling. 

“Are you taking any sociology courses?” the man asks, and Tim’s gaze snaps back up to neutral territory. “We might have some together if you do.” 

“No, I, yeah,” Tim finally gets out, and the man crooks a brow. 

“Was that a yes?” he presses, and Tim barks a short, panicked laugh. 

“Yeah, _ yes_, I’m a political major,” Tim scoffs, and swallows in an effort to regain _ some _ of his pride. “I’ve done a few sociology courses already. I’m in third year.” 

“Oh,” the man chirps, and smiles again. “I’m still in my second. Late bloomer, I guess,” he says, and shrugs. “Finally got in on a scholarship, so I figured I should make the most of it.” 

“Football?” Tim guesses, and the man frowns, before following his line of questioning. 

“Oh, no, not sports,” he answers, some of the tension easing from his shoulders now that he’s on familiar ground. “Music.” 

“Music?” Tim repeats, sweeping over the guy. He’s got to be at least six feet tall, and broad enough to give a linebacker a run for their money. Certainly doesn’t look like the type to be cooped up indoors with a piano or a violin. “Which instrument?” 

“I sing.” 

Tim blinks. “You sing.” 

The man smiles, a little shyly. “Yeah, I don’t play any instruments. I sing. Used to be in the national choir back home. Now the university enters me in a bunch of competitions to drum up prestige. I figure it’s a pretty easy ride to getting my masters.” 

“You sing,” Tim repeats, unsure he’s heard right, and is saved from proving the man’s suspicions that he _ is _ an idiot by Steph barging into the room. 

“_There _ you are,” she croons, latching onto Tim immediately. He staggers in her grip, and doesn’t miss when the man makes an aborted reach to steady him. 

“Woah, hey, you alright there?” the man asks kindly, checking Steph once over with a concerned air. 

“She’s not drunk,” Tim supplies for his benefit as Steph straightens. “Just an extravert.” 

“What is this, the introverts club?” she jabs, and weaves her arm around Tim’s elbow. “You’re at a _ party. _Socialise!” 

Tim gestures smugly to the man. “I am socialising.” 

Steph seems to notice him for the first time, her stare turning sharp as it drags up his form and then flicks knowingly to Tim’s. He stifles a groan, but she’s back to draping herself over him in the next minute, playing up the obnoxiousness for Tim’s benefit, he’s sure. 

“They’re playing truth or dare,” Steph groans, and tugs with the grip she has on Tim’s upper arm. “C’mon, bring your hot date.” 

Tim squeaks in protest at the epithet, but then he catches sight of the blush that’s lit up the man’s cheeks, and his rational brain leaves him in favour of cooing over how it emphasises the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks. Steph doesn’t wait a second longer to yank him towards the doorframe, and he flails blindly until he can latch onto the man’s wrist, tugging him along. 

He comes pliantly, laughing into the shell of Tim’s ear as they breach into the cacophony of the common room. Tim gulps, sure the man can’t see it in the dimness, and tightens his grip on the guy’s wrist. 

Steph makes a beeline through the crowd, shoving her way through with Tim playing the reluctant lemming. When they stagger out on the other side, they’re greeted by a circle of people sitting on the floor who cheer and shuffle to accommodate them. Steph finally relinquishes Tim to nestle between two women, and beckons the pair of them closer. 

The man’s leaning down next to Tim’s ear in the next second, breath warm enough to send a shiver racing up his throat when he says, “I’m Jason, by the way.” 

“Tim,” he answers, eternally impressed by how level his tone is. 

The man - _ Jason _ \- smiles and brushes past him to take one of the offered spaces, leaving Tim the spot closer to Steph, directly opposite. He slides down to sit on his crooked legs as the host leans into the center and plucks the top card off a considerable stack. 

“Truth or dare,” she declares with a mischievous waggle of her brows. “As the last two here, you two get to go first.” 

“Dibs,” Jason chirps with a broad smile, and the host matches it. “Truth.” 

She waves the card in the air before them, squinting to make out the text in the gloom. “Name something embarrassing that you’ve brought with you from home.” 

Jason lifts his gaze skyward and considers for a moment before smiling fondly. “I don’t know if it counts, but I brought my singing with me. I always used to jam at home to an empty house. I still sing here. My roommate exiled me to the shower though, so now I only sing when I’m in there.” 

Tim barks a laugh, and it’s not until all the eyes in the circle lift to fix on him that he blushes, shoulders hunching. He coughs surreptitiously, and croaks, “You should sing something for us.” 

Jason starts at that, looking a little taken aback, but Tim’s suggestion is met with a chorus of assent, so he ducks humbly and clears his throat. 

_ “Each morning I get up, I die a little,” _ he begins in a surprisingly high tenor for his large frame. Tim doesn’t know why he had expected him to be a bass or alto, but the transition fits him somehow. His melody ratchets higher, growing steadily as his confidence sures. _ “Can’t barely stand on my feet…” _

Tim knows this song, and a little thrill lights him up at the recognition, even as the man’s lips twist into a smile that garbles the words a bit. 

_“Take a look in the mirror and cry - Lord, what’re you doing to me?_ _I’ve spent all my years in believing you-”_ His voice rises to a vibrating crescendo, making Tim’s stomach swoop with it. _“But I just can't get no relief, Lord-”_

The realisation blazes through him suddenly, the memory of where he’s heard this voice, singing that song, before. Of Tim’s wavering tenor rising to harmonise it, palm pressed to the wall of his ensuite shower, to the shared wall dividing his room and- 

_ “Somebody,” _ Jason pleads, soft and coy, dropping the note to a low purr as he pries his eyes open, grinning at their little circle. A few other heads have turned to watch, and Tim sees a blush speckle his cheekbones. 

“Somebody,” Tim answers, and the man’s eyes snap to his, lips twisting in glee. 

_ “Somebody,” _ Jason insists with more force. 

Tim lets his words slide into something more melodic when he rejoins, _ “Somebody.” _

_ “Can anybody find me-” _ the man croons, and rips up into the second chorus, belting, _ “-somebody to love?” _

It’s met with a series of cheers that snaps Tim out of his reverie, and has the man dropping the note in surprise. He grins immediately after, blushing a little along the tops of his ears, and Tim mirrors it. 

“Alright, Shortstuff, your turn,” the host says, shuffling in her sit. Steph leans over her shoulder to read the prompt on the card, her grin growing as her gaze travels. Tim feels trepidation twist his gut. “Okay. Truth or dare?” 

Tim’s feeling galvanised by Jason’s performance, so he doesn’t feel an ounce of hesitation when he takes the leap and says, “Dare.” 

It’s the wrong choice, going by the malicious glee that lights up Steph’s features. The host grins and instructs, reading from the card, “Recreate your best orgasm voice. Genuine, no faking.” 

Tim’s stomach plummets into his heels, even as a few interested smiles appear among the circle of faces. “Really?” he croaks as the host flicks him the card as proof. He fumbles it into his hands, swallowing hard. 

“Read it and weep, pretty boy,” Steph croons, leaning heavily into the girl’s shoulder. “Now get to screaming.” 

Tim considers protesting. An immediate, definitive refusal. Then he pictures Steph recreating it anyway, pleading luxuriously in a horrifically accurate recollection of his shouts in the throws of passion. He’s sure she’ll find a way to be unnervingly accurate. Mostly because she’s _ heard _ him, babbling nonsense he doesn’t remember even saying as he crests an orgasm. 

Tim’s not stupid or reckless enough to give her the opportunity. So he lets his eyes slip shut, drawing down deep as he tries to remember the last time he got off, how the sounds had felt in his throat. Tries his best not to think about so many eyes on him as he lets a moan filter up through his parted lips. 

The mortification slips away after a few seconds of staring at the backs of his eyelids. He can almost pretend he’s alone, hand on himself, head tilted against the cool shower tile, rocking gently onto the balls of his feet. His toes curl in his boots as he lets his breath rise to whining pants, letting his jaw go slack at the ghost of sensation that washes over him where he sits. 

He can pinpoint the last time he got off perfectly. Nails hitched into the mortar and warm water dripping down through his hair as his panting breaths had condensed on the tile. Shivering gently under the onslaught of that coil winding tighter and tighter in his gut. And then- 

Then a groan, filtering back through the tile. Tim had frozen, eyes snapping open, expecting to see someone staring back, but had only found the shower wall inches from his face. It had taken a few minutes before he had been able to distinguish the irregular patter of water that was _ not _ his shower, and then another before he had realised it was coming from the room next door. Tim had paused, more out of curiosity than anything else, until another sharp hitch had pressed through the wall. 

His neighbour liked to sing, Tim’d known that already. Liked to belt at the top of his lungs, loud enough that Tim was sometimes compelled to join in. It’d started as an off-handed amusement, a little occasional slice of joy to Tim’s morning routine, that had developed into anticipation. His neighbour was a good singer, bright and warm as he’d crooned through the wall to harmonize Tim’s warbling. 

He just hadn’t thought that his neighbour would be as vocal in… other pursuits. But fuck if it wasn’t one of the nicest sounds Tim’s ever heard. High and breathless, wavering on the edge of needy and more than toeing the line into a whine. All too easy to picture the crease of Jason’s brow and the worry of his teeth into his lower lip, now that he had a face to put to the sound. 

And _oh,_ that’s a nice thought. Tim lets a broken little cry press out past his teeth at the image of Jason, wet, needy, slumped against the tile as he chased his release; Tim on the other side of the wall, melting under those _noises_. 

Tim snaps into the realisation that while he’s sure it won't hurt his performance, he’d really rather not have to deal with a hard-on right now, in the middle of a party, surrounded by strangers. Especially not with the subject of his fantasies currently sitting across the circle from him, _ staring _ at him as he whines and shifts and- 

Tim lets his moans filter up into broken cries, tilting his head back as he yells, hard and sharp and thrumming with arousal. Then he stills, prying his eyes open in the wake of his faked crescendo, lowering his gaze to find several open-jawed stares. For a second he thinks maybe he took it too far, that he’s shot the last chance he had of getting a date at this party straight out of the water. 

Then he recognises the flash of appreciation in those gazes, and considers that okay, maybe he can be a bit theatrical when it comes to his facial expressions in the middle of a faked orgasm. 

“Pinch me,” someone across the circles says to their partner, breaking the abrupt silence, “am I dreaming or was that _ hot? _” 

“You’ve got a pair of lungs on you, pretty boy,” another interjects with a crooked grin, and Tim offers a hesitant, embarrassed smile that earns him a low whistle. It makes something like pride flair in Tim’s chest, invigorating him as the circle eases into motion, impressed. When he glances across the space, Jason looks a little breathless, and more than a little appreciative of Tim’s performance. 

“I’ll bet _ he _ has a great o-voice,” some dude Tim didn’t bother getting the name of says, nudging Jason, who blushes. 

“He does,” Tim replies, and everyone stills. 

It takes a spare moment for the fact that he just said that _ aloud _ to register with Tim, and then he feels the embarrassment light him up from head to toe. 

Across the circle from him, Jason has gone perfectly still, a dumbfounded expression on his features. “Excuse me?” he says, just a touch accusatory. 

Tim swallows, paling. 

“Your voice,” Tim repeats, as if that clarifies anything, and Jason’s brows hitch upwards with each syllable that follows. “When you’re showering, I hear you sometimes.” 

Jason makes a choked, horrified little noise that catches in the top of his throat, and Tim feels a wave of humiliation crest and crash over him. 

“The showers,” he yelps, brow pinching in mortification. “Our showers share a wall. I can hear right through it when we shower.” Shut up. “Sometimes we shower together, at the same time.” _ Shut up. _ “So I can hear you when you- you- you know-” SHUT. UP. “Get off,” Tim stutters out lamely, and Jason is beet red now. 

“Holy shit,” Steph whispers through the silence that follows, and it snaps whatever blind calm had been pushing Tim through that confession. 

Jason jerks to his feet, posture tense like he’s planning to bolt. His hands clench idly as his head whips towards the darkened window, and then the kitchen, and then the door. 

Tim scrambles up to his knees, but Jason blurts an, “I have to go,” before Tim can climb shakily to his feet. 

“_Fuck_,” Tim curses, and stumbles after him, guilt lodging his heart painfully behind his trachea. The circle parts to let him through, and Tim sprints after the retreating man. “Jason, wait-” 

He catches up in the hallway, flushed and a little breathless, to find Jason standing stock still, head pressed firmly against his closed door. Tim staggers to a halt, hesitant. 

“Uh, Jason?” he prompts softly, and the man’s shoulders pinch up around his ears. 

“I’m going to have to change dorms,” he mumbles into the wood, and Tim frowns, puzzled as Jason continues, “I’m never going to live this down. I’m going to have to change my name, go into witness protection.” 

“Witness protection?” Tim repeats, like an idiot, hovering in the hallway while he waits for his uncooperative brain to catch up. 

Jason swivels, gaze trailing up the length of Tim as he twists his head against the door. “Witness protection,” he repeats hollowly. 

“Doesn’t there have to be a crime for that to happen?” Tim replies, and nearly, actually kicks himself. 

Jason’s gaze hesitates on his, blue eyes still laced with residual panic. “What do you call that performance? Because _ that _was criminal.” 

Tim flushes hot, and chokes out a laugh through his tight throat. It feels good, to get some of the tension out, so he laughs again, wrapping arms around his midsection. When he looks up through his tears, Jason’s leaning off the door, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“That was a terrible joke,” Jason chastises, and his contrition just sparks another fit of laughter. “I don’t believe you genuinely found that funny. It was _ awful._” 

Tim snorts, coming back to himself a bit when he manages to shove down the chuckles bubbling in his chest. “You have an amazing singing voice,” he says, and Jason starts in surprise. Tim gestures lamely behind him, back to where the thrum of music is filtered out to them. “That’s what I wanted to say back there. You sound divine.” 

Jason blushes under the harsh fluorescents, but does smile. “Thanks. Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.” 

Tim scoffs, arching a brow. “I sang two words. I hardly think that counts.” 

“Not back there,” Jason corrects, and points to Tim’s closed dorm room door, beside him. “In there. When you’re- showering. You sound divine, too.” 

So he _ does _ remember their impromptu duets. The confirmation makes Tim a little giddy. His responding smile feels a little lopsided, but Jason’s grin widens, so Tim counts that as a success. “I don’t have your range,” he admits with a shrug, “but I try.” 

“Your singing’s okay,” Jason agrees coyly, and his incisors show when he smirks. “But, uh, I meant your _ other _ singing.” 

For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to Tim that if he could hear Jason through the shower tile, then it was equally likely Jason could hear him, bellowing his way through an intense orgasm as he came to Jason’s sharp mewls of pleasure. The thought is… not as mortifying as Tim thought it would be. Not now that he’s admitted as much to Jason. 

He swallows thickly, glancing at Jason’s still-locked door. “Are you, uh, turning in for the night then?” 

“Hmm?” Jason hums, and follows his gaze. “Oh! No, I lost my keys at the party. Realised when I got here. I’m gonna have to wait for my roommate to get off work to let me in.” 

“Oh,” Tim counters, and feels every inch when Jason’s gaze drags over him, fidgeting uselessly in the middle of the hallway. He swings his arms idly, knocking the keys crammed into his jeans pocket as he does, and starts. “Oh, hey. Then, do you want to come to mine?” 

Jason follows the jerk of his thumb towards the closed door, and the smile he offers shows none of his previous panic. “Yeah, sure. Maybe I’ll get to see your recording studio,” he adds charmingly, and his voice drops to a light purr when he adds, “Love to try out the acoustics in there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that a _fourth_ chapter? By Jove, you're damn right it is.  
Who knows, I might even get that fifth chapter out in the week it's actually due. (Don't hold your breath, though). 
> 
> Yeah, it's another College AU. I just like their dynamic, okay?  
Let me have my soft singing Jason and my flustered disaster bi Tim. 
> 
> The song Jason sings is "[Somebody To Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kijpcUv-b8M)" by Queen, if anyone hasn't had the blessing of hearing it yet.


End file.
